The crowd had turned restless by the time the fourth round ended. Their chants rolled like thunder from the stands, but their faces showed the same demand: blood.
Lucian stood in his corner, ribs aching, one eye swelling shut. Sweat dripped from his chin into the mud. His grin was still there, though it felt more like a mask holding him upright than anything else.
Berel hadn't slowed once. Every swing carried weight meant to crush bone. Lucian had spent most of the round circling and without engaging. Each dodge bought him a breath, but his lungs only burned hotter.
"Coward," Berel called across the pit, voice booming over the noise. "Run more. That's all you're good for."
Lucian spat blood into the mud, wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm.
The bell rang.
